The Curse of Home Farm
by ThePennyTealeaf
Summary: Welcome to Home Farm, 1927, where Lord Francis Tate and his family rule over the servants of the village in a world of secrets, scandal and ultimately murder.
1. Home Farm

**Jjscm and I do not own Emmerdale. Rights of which belong to ITV, Keith Richardson, Tony Hatch, the wonderful cast and crew and ITV's affiliates.**

 **Please Note: This story combines the characters of three decades of the village and was inspired by Classic Emmerdale.**

 _Welcome to Home Farm, 1927, The Family Seat of Lord Francis Tate, Earl of Miffield._

Upstairs:  
-Lord Francis "Frank" Tate, Earl of Miffield (born 1867, age 60)  
-Lady Katherine "Kim" Tate, Countess of Miffield (by marriage) (born 1885, age 42)  
-Lord Christopher "Chris" Tate, the Earl's eldest son, also Lord Wittonlea by courtesy title; also "Crispy" (born 1891, age 36)  
-Lady Zoya "Zoe" Tate, daughter of the Earl of Miffield (born 1897, age 30)  
-Lord Joseph Tate, illegitimate son of Lord Christopher and housemaid Rachel Hughes (born 1908, age 19)  
-Lord James Tate, son of the Earl and Countess of Miffield (born 1909, age 18)  
-Lady Jean "Jeanie" Tate, 'daughter' of the Earl and Countess of Miffield (born 1917, age 10)

Downstairs:  
-Graham Foster, Butler of Home Farm  
-James "Jimmy" King, First Footman/Valet to Lord Francis Tate  
-Brian "Biff" Fowler, Second Footman/Valet to Lord Christopher Tate  
-Ross Barton, Third Footman/Valet to Lord Joseph Tate  
-Aaron Dingle, Valet to Lord James Tate  
-Daniel "Dan" Spencer, Chauffeur  
-Liam Hammond, Groundskeeper  
-Diane Blackstock, also Mrs Blackstock, Missus, Housekeeper of Home Farm  
-Priya Sharma, Lady's Maid to Lady Kim Tate  
-Ella "Effie" Harrison, Lady's Maid to Lady Zoya Tate  
-Nicola King, also "Kinsett", Nursery Maid to Lady Jean Tate  
-Belle Dingle, Parlourmaid  
-Liza Glover, Housemaid  
-Lydia Hart, Housemaid  
-Ceri Spencer, Housemaid  
-Victoria Sugden, Cook  
-Amelia Spencer, Scullery Maid/Kitchen Maid

The Ladies of Emmerdale:  
-Miss Katherine Bates  
-Miss Pearl Ladderbanks  
-Miss Harriet Finch, Local Missionary  
-Miss Margaret Macey  
-Miss Louisa Harding  
-Miss Vanessa Woodfield

The Enemies of Home Farm:  
-The Sugdens  
-The Dingles


	2. Happy Days of Old

_Everything Stops for Tea upon 4 o'clock at Home Farm and a family discussion leads to a dangerous liaison..._

"Not again," Christopher Tate warned darkly, rolling his eyes at the youngest of the family, a pretty, charming child by the name of Jean, who was winding the gramophone again.

"Happy Days are here again!" she sang in her childish, flighty tones, trying to match the tempo with the sound.

"You keep on believing that," Christopher muttered bitterly, turning back to his newspaper.

"What are you doing, Crispy?" Jean asked, wandering sweetly to the desk where he was seated in his strange wooden contraption. She liked to play with it sometimes when he was occupied.

"I do wish you wouldn't call me that," Christopher sighed, ignoring her.

"Why not?" she drawled, smiling at him.

"Haven't you anything else to do?" Christopher returned impatiently, flapping the newspaper as he folded it over.

She shook her head.

"Why don't you find dear Pappy? I'm sure he'll buy you something to keep you occupied. He normally does," Christopher remarked sarcastically.

Jean remained immune to his sarcasm.

"Where's my little champion then?" A friendly deep voice came from behind Jean and she turned, her face lighting up at the sight of 'Papa'.

"Oh, she's here. Being an annoyance," Chris replied, over his shoulder.

Frank immediately swept Jean up into his arms and swung her around, singing along to the record on the gramophone, which had caught up.

"Dad, do you have to do that in here?" Christopher groaned, "you'll only make her sick. Again."

He referred to the previous afternoon when after taking a rather high tea in the company of 'Kim' and some other important ladies of the village, who had remarked on what a 'darling little cherub' she was, the aforementioned cherub in question, upon seeing her dearest 'Papa' had been spun around only to empty the contents of her luncheon onto the Persian carpet and Miss Bates's new hat.

"Oh, come now, I think we've learnt our lesson, haven't we, Jeanie?" Frank asked her. Jean squealed in delight.

"I am trying to work in here, you know. Running your business," Chris reminded him agitatedly. "Or, I could be, if you didn't trust that witch of a wife more than me."

"Christopher," Frank warned, setting Jean down on the carpet, "little Champion, why don't you go to the kitchen and see what Liza has in the pantry for you... Papa might have left something there."

Jean, sensing that she was no longer welcome to observe the conversation, graciously took her leave, skipping out of the drawing room and along the hallway in pursuit of the surprise that awaited in the kitchen.

She had just reached the staircase when a woman emerged from the music room, exquisitely dressed, golden hair immaculately styled in the latest fashion. She looked at Jean with a mixture of curiosity and amusement.

Jean simply stared in awe. She was beautiful, so elegant.

"And where are you off to?" she asked in a well modulated yet harsh voice.

"Papa left a surprise for me," Jean explained, twisting her fingers.

"Did he now?" The woman looked over her, "what have you been doing this morning?"

"Listening to the gramophone," Jean replied.

"I think we've forgotten a little word, haven't we?"

"Mama," Jean corrected herself, despite feeling no real affection for the woman.

"That's better." The woman patted her head with her black silk glove. "And where is Papa now?"

"With Crispy."

The woman smirked.

"But he told me not to call him that," Jean admitted.

"Oh, why?" the woman asked, raising Jean's chin delicately.

"He doesn't like it." Jean shrugged.

"No, we don't shrug our shoulders, do we now?" her 'Mama' reprimanded her sharply.

"No, Mama," Jean answered complacently.

"I think it's a lovely thing; to give your brother a silly name. Perhaps you can think of one for your sister as well?" She put emphasis on the 'sister', however her attempt at irony fell flat in the face of Jean's childish naivety.

"I shall." Jean nodded.

"Good girl. What surprise has Papa got for you, I wonder?" her 'Mama' added pertinently, standing to her full height, towering over Jean. "I think I saw the parcel arrive. A patisserie, no less."

Jean prepared to run, but her 'Mama' took her shoulder. "No, we walk."

Jean nodded.

"Good. Run along, now." She tapped her shoulder sweetly before heading into the study where Frank and Chris were deep in conversation.

"Whatever you may think, Christopher," Frank was saying as his wife entered.

"Oh, sorry, I hope I'm not interrupting." Kim removed her hat and gloves.

"How could you not?" Chris responded acidly.

Kim smirked, linking her arm with Frank's.

"We can talk about this later, son."

"So you can spend the remaining hours of the day with your strumpet," Christopher commented, "and I thought you were only a Lady of the night," he added to Kim.

"Very witty," she replied, looking up at Frank.

"Christopher, apologise to your stepmother," Frank instructed coldly.

"I think not. I'm not seven years old." Chris turned back to his work as another of the family entered; Christopher's own son, who was the very image of his father.

His parentage had caused something of a scandal, being the son of the Earl of Miffield's heir and a housemaid. She herself had died, tragically, in childbirth, leaving her son to be raised by his father, who felt something of a detachment to the boy.

He was, however, an improvement on Frank's own heir, the young James Tate. At least, Christopher had provided his opinion as such.

A surge of pride filled Christopher as he looked upon his son, now in his late teenage years. The very model of Tate breeding. He had attended a fine school of repute, bringing home with him a footman whom had caught the eye of Kim herself.

"Ah, Joseph," Frank began.

"Good morning, Grandfather, Grandmother." Joseph knew it irked Kim greatly that he refused to address her by her formal title, Lady Tate. Christopher smirked and chuckled to himself in approval.

"How are you doing, my boy?" Frank asked him.

"Very well, thank you, Grandfather."

"Enough of this formality. Ring for Foster and have him bring tea." Kim waved her hand. Joseph set to the wall where a cord awaited and tugged upon it, prompting the arrival of a distinguished looking man.

Frank noticed how his wife's eyes swivelled over Foster, but refrained from comment.

"Ah, Foster," Kim started before her husband could speak, "I would be most grateful for tea."

"Of course, my Lady." Foster bowed, before retreating to prepare the tea.

"I wish you wouldn't speak to him like that." Frank shook his head. "You indulge him to step out of place."

"As you indulge Jean?" his wife retorted snippily, irritated at his comment.

"We are not discussing Jean."

"Well, that makes a change." Christopher offered his two-penny's worth, not in support of his stepmother, but in an attempt to make his own point.

"I am certain we could find a suitable school to take her for the next few years?" Kim suggested.

"Jean remains here." Frank's word was final.

"How do you expect to run the estate with a child running about like a menace?" Christopher challenged his father.

"What do you say, Joseph? Do you consider your cousin to be a menace?" Frank asked.

They were interrupted by the return of Foster, carrying a fine silver tray adorned with a silver tea service, a doily draping prettily over the edges.

He set the tray upon the coffee table, ensuring that everything was as it should be and stepped back to await further instruction under Kim's watchful eye.

"No, Grandfather. I have no such opinion of my cousin," Joseph replied with dignity.

He was an attractive young man, it had to be said. His suits were always exquisitely cut, tailored to his body exactly. Next to his father, they were practically brothers. He wore ties in a nod to modernity and stiff white collars that emphasised his long neck and angular jaw. His hair, milky tea in colour interwoven with fairer tones, was set in a severe parting to the left, swept down. He was handsome with breeding and charm to match, however rogueishly.

James, by comparison, was as tall, yet fuller in feature. Smaller eyes, a wider jaw, but a determined nose and far softer nature. Where Joseph was ruthless and cunning, like his father, James was sedate and methodical.

"I am glad to hear that, at least," Frank agreed, "Jean will remain here at Home Farm under the guidance of her tutor."

"The tutor who takes your money and abandons her to her own devices," Christopher muttered.

"Perhaps that is to her advantage," Kim reasoned, "she will never be cursed with such a broadened education, the burden of overthinking."

"Oh, you are witty." Christopher met her eyes. "I daresay you could tutor her, if you so wished."

Kim smirked.

"Her Mama, doing the duty of a governess? I think not. Besides; your father has advised that the matter is closed."

Her eyes darted sideways at Foster, offering him a fond yet smirking look.

"Having said that," Joseph remarked, "she is a little... wild, but I could never say menace."

"You see?" Christopher interjected, "from my son."

"Oh and of course we must take his opinion into account," Kim sneered, "offence unintended, naturally."

"Why are we still talking about her?"

"Point well made, Joseph. What did you want to say, Dad?"

"What makes you think there is anything to say, Christopher?" Frank queried.

"Well, we're all gathered here..."

"James is missing," Frank pointed out.

"Oh is he? I hadn't noticed," Christopher mocked, looking around, "seeing as it makes no difference to the conversation when he is here."

"Christopher."

"Spare me the looks of disdain, Dad. I'm an adult."

"You're behaving like a five year old," Kim told him, "now, lets stop all this and have tea in peace."

"The witch speaks," Christopher murmured.

Kim returned this with a dark look, but kept her manner refined.

"I do not wish to discuss business without James here," Frank announced.

"Seeing as he is the only heir you care to include."

"I do believe you are jealous of your brother, Christopher," Kim poured tea diligently.

"Am I?" Christopher replied, "what on earth gave you that idea?"

Kim was about to reply when Zoya, known as Zoe, strolled into the room.

"Miss Tate," Foster extended a greeting to her. She smiled and handed him her coat, revealing her shirt and trousers combination with a riding jacket.

"Oh, you might have dressed," Frank shook his head, "what on earth would the Sinclairs say?"

"Why? Are we expecting them?" Zoe queried smartly.

"You know exactly what I mean, Zoya."

"Zoe," Zoe corrected, "sounds far more modern than Zoya. Besides which, this is the height of fashion."

She gestured to her ensemble.

"Foster approves, don't you?" she turned to him.

"Well... I... I don't think it my place to comment."

"Nonsense!" Zoe exclaimed, "you have an opinion, Foster and I shall hear it."

"Well, I think it a smart ensemble," Foster answered.

"You see, Dad, Foster approves." Zoe found herself a seat and joined the throng.

"Hmm. Well, Foster, that will be all," Frank directed.

"Yes, my Lord."

Zoe immediately helped herself to tea.

"You all look most pensive. Something wrong?"

"We were in discussion over the matter of your sister and her place in the household."

"My sister? Oh Dad, how long are you going to keep up this facade?" Zoe sighed.

"Not in front of the servants," Frank warned.

"Oh Dad!" Zoe groaned, dragging her hand across her face, "it's 1927, not 1807! No one cares about a child being born out of wedlock!"

"Ssh! Keep your voice down!"

Kim watched on with amusement. Zoya was so predictable. To see her standing in her androgynous ensemble, debating her right to tell the truth in front of company; she admired her for her dedication.

"Why?"

"Because she could be listening," Frank hissed, "imagine the confusion it will cause her, an innocent child."

"Dad's right, Zig, we don't want to scar her even more than she has to be," Christopher added in support as his son chuckled.

"Sometimes I find it difficult to differentiate between you and him," Zoe accused Christopher and Joseph.

"Zoe, Dad does have a point. We don't need to tell the whole village. Especially not with this party coming up, all those eligible bachelors..." He sucked in his breath, "just imagine!"

Zoe gave him a rueful look.

"Will you ever grow up?"

"Hmm..." Christopher contemplated, "no, I have Joseph here to live vicariously through me."

He patted his son's back heartily.

"Perhaps you could clear this away, Foster and check on luncheon?" Frank suggested, looking agitated.

"As you ask, Sir." Foster swept the tray from the coffee table and withdrew from the room.

"Zoya, I hope I don't have to remind you of the family position."

"Legs in the air," Christopher offered.

"Ha ha," Zoe scoffed, "exactly when do you plan to tell my daughter who her mother is?"

"You gave her to our care," Kim retorted, holding Frank's hand, "we agreed it was best... given your... circumstances."

"Oh, I see. The family coup," Zoe frowned, "and what if I decide to tell her myself?"

"I thought you were more sensible than that." Her father sighed sympathetically.

"Dad adores her, Zoe," Christopher announced, "she's his own darling little cherub, or so Miss Ladderbanks and Miss Eagleton told us."

"She's mine," Zoe stated defiantly.

"Your father has done everything to prevent a scandal," Kim spoke up, "and this is how you repay his generosity, his kindness? Zoya, you forget yourself."

"No, this family forgets itself." Zoya marched toward the door, "Jean is my daughter and always will be. As if you could ever claim to be a mother," she directed her insult at Kim.

"Zoya!" Frank called after her, but Kim tugged his sleeve.

"Leave her, Frank," Kim told him, kissing his cheek. "Perhaps you could occupy yourselves elsewhere. You know how the doctor feels about your father in tense situations."

"Perhaps you could take care of him," Christopher suggested, a wicked glint in his eyes, "come on, Joseph. A game of billiards is in order."

Joseph followed his father from the room, leaving Kim alone with Frank.

"Another chapter," he advised Kim, who fetched his notepad and pen. "Thank you."

"Don't you worry, Zoya will soon see sense. She has such a fiery spirit."

"I know," Frank acknowledged.

"I shall speak to her," Kim insisted, kissing his head, dragging herself away to the door.

However, her intentions were centred elsewhere. She followed the hallway along to a cupboard, noticing Foster collecting things from it and approached him.

"Bravo on your appraisal," she grinned, as he turned to face her.

"I don't think this is wise, do you, milady?"

"Oh, drop the formality, Foster. My husband has lost all interest."

"Then he is a fool."

"I am glad we are agreed." She pushed him against the shelves, wrapping him in a passionate embrace, their kisses urgent and fiery.

"Milady..."

"Know your place, Foster." She ruffled his smoothed down hair. "You do as your Lady tells you to."

Unbeknownst to them both, a pair of intrigued eyes were watching from the gap in the stairway. She knew that Mama and Papa loved each other, but Mama seemed to love Foster too. But he was a servant?

She backed away as their passion intensified, closing her eyes and fleeing to her room.


	3. The Black Book

_In which Lady Jean makes an intriguing discovery and a rivalry is fuelled._

 _A collaboration chapter between jjscm01 and ThePennyTealeaf_

"Eh, what's goin' on here, then?" Nicola asked brusquely as her young charge bounded into the nursery, leaping straight into the chair by the sashed window. It was a pleasant, bright room, decorated in an elaborate fashion for a child so young, all pink and white fripperies and expensive Morris paper adorning the walls. It was the ideal of girlhood, containing a plethora of dolls, a fine dolls house and two large bookcases crammed with books. The armchair itself was also pink, the softest powder blush with a buttoned back and curved seat.

"Nothing." Jean gathered her knees to her chest, looking forlorn in her now crumpled lace trimmed dress and neat button shoes.

"Doesn't look like nothing to me, young miss." Nicola eyed her suspiciously. "come along now, what is it?"

Jean shook her head, neat dark bob bouncing sweetly with the movement.

Nicola dropped the blanket she was folding and went to the chair where Jean sat, leaning to her level.

"Miss Jean, there's nothing so bad as a child that tells a tale."

"I'm not telling tales!" Jean remonstrated, "I haven't said anything!"

"And that is the point." Nicola adapted her tone to a more stern approach, hauling herself up, "you need to tell the truth."

Jean sighed deeply, preparing herself.

"I saw something." She admitted.

"Oh?" Nicola's interest was piqued. "what did you see?"

Jean looked up at her, briefly, then hung her head.

"Mama...and Foster."

A spark flashed in Nicola's eyes.

"Mama and Foster? You must have that wrong, young miss. Of course you do." Nicola reeled off, secretly filled with glee. What an advantage to have, to have the upper hand for once. Not that she disliked Foster, but he was, in her opinion, cold and obnoxious. "Your Mama loves your Papa dearly, perhaps you thought you saw something, but it was someone else."

"It was Mama. I am sure of it." Jean replied defiantly.

"Now, now, I doubt that. But, it is time for your walk." Nicola checked her schedule, "shall we?" She went to the wardrobe and took out the girl's outerwear, the garments as fine and elegant as her 'Mama's.' Truly, no expense was spared, Nicola knew, as far as her master was concerned.  
She placed the hat on Jean's head, taking care to adjust the pleats on the structured swing coat and led her charge downstairs and out of the side door, past the kitchen, where the staff were working frantically to prepare dinner.

In the study downstairs, Christopher looked up from his papers as his valet, Master Biff Fowler, entered.

"You're late," he snarled.

"Apologies, my Lord." Fowler sounded like he was speaking through gritted teeth. "I was—"

"Up late with one of the ladies of the village, no doubt?" Christopher sneered. "Spare me your excuses. I need to be in the village by five."

"Certainly, my Lord. I'll ready the car." Fowler headed out to where Christopher's vehicle could be found, leaving the Lord glaring resentfully after him. Christopher despised Fowler, who was young, able-bodied and attractive to the local women, everything that Christopher himself used to be. The same could be said of Christopher's own son, but he felt nothing but pride where Master Joseph was concerned. A fine specimen, in spite of his illegitimacy.

"Good afternoon, my Lord." The groundskeeper, Liam Hammond, had entered, looking scruffy as ever.

"Good afternoon, Hammond," Christopher replied courteously. He'd had an uncharacteristic respect for the groundskeeper, who had been with the family many years, ever since Hammond had rescued the young Joseph from a passing motorcar.

"How is the Earl of Miffield today?"

"My 'sister' is running rings around him, as always." Christopher's sarcasm was obvious, it was an open secret that Jeanie was actually the daughter of Zoya Tate. "As is his wife."

"The Lady Tate should know her place. You and your son are more entitled to your titles than she." Hammond reddened slightly. "I shouldn't speak out of turn."

"By all means, speak your mind. You're practically family." Christopher looked past Hammond to where the returned Fowler was now standing and barked "Is my car ready yet?"

"Trouble with the engine, my Lord."

"I'll take a look," offered Hammond.

"Thank you, Hammond," Christopher returned to his paperwork. "I'm glad there's somebody of competence around here."

Fowler grimaced darkly.

"Time to go in, now I think. They'll be setting up supper soon." Nicola remarked as they reached the end of the rose garden after a brisk, yet tiresome walk.

"I like it out here." Jean replied solemnly, threading another daisy in a chain as she plucked them from the grass.

"You and me both." Nicola muttered to herself, putting a hand on Jean's shoulder, "come on, else they'll miss us."

"Why would Mama kiss Foster?"

"I don't know, Miss." Nicola sighed. In truth she knew exactly why Lady Tate might do so, but would keep that for later.

"He can't love her. She has Papa." Jean stated.

Nicola felt slightly uncomfortable at the prospect of returning the child to the house. Goodness knows what might happen at the dinner table.

"Well, Foster is fond of everyone." She suggested, giving a cursory look to the darkening sky, "we'd better hurry back, it looks as though it might rain. Goodness knows what your Mama would say if I allowed you to get wet!"

She tugged on the girl's arm, leading her back toward the house. The lights were glimmering in all the downstairs windows with a lone glow from the master bedroom.

Jean noticed the car at the front of the house as they approached and ran towards it, Nicola following in haste.

"Miss Jean!" She called, however her attempt was futile.

"The car! The car!" She crowed, dancing around it much to the amusement of Hammond.

"Indeed, Miss. Tis a car! Would you like to see how it works?"

Jean stopped and surveyed Hammond with interest. She had been taught about the boundaries of servants, her position in relation to them.

"Is it appropriate for me?" She asked with dignity.

"I don't see why not, your Mama's got no problem with it."

"Mr Hammond," Nicola fought to catch her breath, "Miss Jean is a young lady."

"I can see, but even young ladies must have some practical knowledge." He grinned at Jean; who smiled sweetly back.

"Go on, then, but be quick about it before Her Ladyship catches you." Nicola gabbled.

Jean listened with interest as Hammond propped her on the bonnet, talking to her as he worked to fix the car. He was surprised at her genuine curiosity, responding with intelligent questions that he could barely answer.

"I think we're done." He declared, sweeping her off the bonnet and setting it back into place, "thank you for your assistance, Miss."

Jean waved her hand courteously as she had seen Kim do and climbed up into the driver's seat, squeezing the horn and laughing breezily.

The sound alerted the household to the windows and within moments, a red faced Frank stormed out into the grounds.

"What is the meaning of this?" He demanded.

"Miss Jean wanted to see the car." Liam explained.

"Papa, Mr Hammond has been telling me about the workings. He's been very nice to me. I have decided I should like to be a mechanic."

Christopher, who had also wheeled himself to explore the source of the commotion, sniggered.

Fury filled Frank's face.

"I see, well, we shall have to see about that." He glared at Hammond, who continued wiping his hands, rubbing the back of one across his brow.

"Kinsett, take the child inside." Francis instructed Nicola, who beckoned Jean to her, helping her down from the car.

"Papa, Mr Hammond was very nice to me, please don't be angry."

Frank remained cold, stern.

"Come away, Miss." Nicola ushered her into the house.

Frank strode to the door of the car, his eyes dark.

"Do you value your position, here, Hammond?"

"Of course sir."

"Then you will oblige me by explaining why my daughter, who holds a position of rank in society, would be declaring that she intends to become a mechanic?"

"I was showing the young lady a car. Teaching her something practical."

"It is not your place to teach her anything, do you understand, Hammond?"

"Dad, if Jeanie wanted to see the car, Hammond was only doing as you asked." Christopher remarked, wheeling himself out onto the drive, accompanied by Fowler.

"Christopher, this is not your concern." Francis replied, without looking at him.

"No, nothing ever is. However, unless you release Hammond I will be late to our appointment with the Wyldes. I can't imagine what scandal that will cause if the Earl of Miffield's son turns up after the designated arrival time, but there you go."

"I have my eye on you, Hammond." Frank relented, his parting words sour as he slammed the front door.

"Don't mind him, will you, Hammond?" Christopher asked.

"I'll try not to, my Lord."

"Please, Milord, I didn't mean for Miss Jeanie to get involved with Mr Hammond and the car." Kinsett begged, running along beside Lord Tate as he re-entered the house, her expression pitiful.

"I hope you will ensure that it doesn't happen again," Francis stopped outside the door to the nursery, Kinsett beside him. "I do not want my daughter consorting with the likes of Hammond, is that clear?"

"Quite, sir." Nicola bowed her head respectfully.

"Good. I am grateful for your loyalty to us, Kinsett."

"Milord." She replied, slipping into the nursery.

Meanwhile her young charge crawled beneath the dining table downstairs, tracing the intricate pattern on the carpet. Besides the under stair cupboard, which was warm and cosy, it was her favourite place to hide.

She crawled across to the spare wheelchair that Christopher used when his main contraption was under attention for its wheels or suchlike and dug her hand into the pocket at the back. Her fingers caught upon a ridged surface and she clasped at it, bringing it out of the pocket.

A black book, engraved with the initials of its owner CFT was the prize of her curiosity.

She opened it carefully, sitting cross legged beside the chair and perused the contents with a concentrated frown.

"Miss Baker, 8pm, Friday, Miss Dingle, 9pm Tuesday, Miss Glover!" Jeanie gaped at the name. Miss Glover was one of the housemaids, a kind yet strong young woman whose family's land was owned by the Tates.

She closed the book and slotted it back into place, checking that no one had seen her before strapping herself into the wheelchair and wheeling around in it.

It was quite difficult to manoeuvre at first, the adjustments had been designed to suit Christopher exactly, but Jeanie was determined to prove to herself that she could manage and let off the brake, pulling herself around the table.

The movement was quite strenuous and her muscles ached, but she wouldn't give up.

She wheeled herself to the window and sat there, looking out on the grounds so lovingly tended by Hammond. She spotted him at the edge of the rose garden and gave him a wave. He raised his hand to return the greeting, but something made him stop and he turned away sharply.

Jeanie slumped back into the chair, sighing deeply.

"My Lady!" Lydia entered the room, her hand poised with the new fangled vacuum cleaner that Blackstock had purchased for the house.

Jeanie looked up at the exclamation and smiled.

"Hello Lydia?"

"Miss, are you sure you ought to be playing in that? Tis Lord Christopher's, if I'm not mistaken?"

"Crispy won't mind. He never catches me, anyway."

She wheeled the chair backwards and then forwards to round the table, just as Christopher entered.

The sight of his able bodied niece in the chair he was bound to infuriated him.

"Oh, Crispy?" Jeanie pursed her cupids bow lips.

"Get out of the chair."

She did so immediately, standing up.

"I'm sorry, Crispy."

"You think its funny? Do you? Being bound to a chair?"

"No." Jeanie shook her head.

"Get out of my sight." He seethed, as she fled.

"And what are you staring at?" He turned upon Lydia, who flinched.

"Nothing, sir." She replied.

"Then get on with your work, do what you're paid for!"

"Sir." Lydia returned to using the vacuum cleaner, rolling it across in neat strips across the carpet.

Christopher allowed his head to fall into his hand, the sound of the cleaner droning in his head.

"Turn that infernal thing off, now." He called out to Lydia, who immediately removed it from his presence, as Joseph entered, finding his father in a state.

"Father?" He approached him.

"Joseph." Christopher acknowledged him coldly.

"I heard the ruckus, I thought you might have want of assistance."

"No." His father looked over him, "and how have you occupied your day, hmm? Still at leisure?" he asked sarcastically.

Joseph huffed, affronted.

"I am not a child, father. I can do as I please. Any such time away from the business is my own."

"Spending the afternoons idle, when you could be learning, applying yourself to the management of the estate."

"I'm never going to run it, Father, you know that. Not as long as dear Uncle James is at the helm."

"However James isn't, is he? I want you to see this as an opportunity, Joseph. To prove your worth to your Grandfather. If you manage the accounts successfully, he may consider providing you with your own part of the estate."

"Oh, father, dash it all." Joseph shook his head, smirking, "I've had enough of classroom workmanship. I've been an apprentice since I returned. Grandfather has always denied me favour over James, but I intend to change that."

"Whilst you present yourself as a charmless brat your fortunes will never change. My father is one of the old guard, Joseph. He expects respect, a certain style of behaviour. You're a threat to him with your modern ideals."

"Oh, come on, father, I don't gamble, I rarely drink..." scoffed Joseph, pacing in a brisk fashion, "what does he expect me to do? Spend the afternoon shut away like James, barely able to string two words together."

"If you could show him that you are committed to the business, he may trust you."

"So I have to win the trust of my own grandfather for him to consider any improvement on my income?"

"Yes." Christopher sighed, "oh and do try not to encourage Jeanie to rebel."

"What difference does it make, Father, really?"

"Because he adores her, she's his little princess. If you offend her, you offend him."

"Alright, I'll take your word. I promise not to corrupt Jeanie's little mind with scandalous talk." Joseph recited, mockingly. "Am I excused?"

"Joseph, I want you to do well. I want my father to trust you. He's never shown faith in me, but you have an opportunity, use it."

"I will do, father." Joseph nodded, patting the back of his chair.

"Good. Do what I can't."


	4. Jam and Japes

_The intrigue continues as dinner takes a fraught turn upstairs and downstairs..._

"Do you think Mr Hammond will be in trouble with Papa?" Jean asked curiously as she and Nicola reached the door of the nursery.

"I don't know, Miss. That's the truth of it." Nicola responded simply, opening the door to the pretty room. She observed her charge's solemn look and sighed. It was true what Mrs Blackstock said, there were "nowt happy wi'money".

Jean sat down placidly on the carpet, picking up two dolls for the dolls house and placed them inside.

"What are you doing there, Miss?" She queried, satisfied to see that Jean had found something to occupy herself.

Jean shut the dolls house, going to her chair by the window. Nicola frowned, carefully opening the dolls house, her eyes widening at the arrangement of the butler doll and lady of the house, obviously positioned straight from Jean's memory.

She rearranged them, brushing her hands down on her apron as though tainted and shook her head, returning to her duties.

"Miss, come here, let me look at you." Nicola insisted, as Jean stood obediently in front of her, her dress stained from the car bonnet, her hair tousled.

"Think we'd better get you cleaned up," she told the girl decisively.

Jean nodded and stood as Nicola dressed her, taking out a fine dropped waist style dress of softest lilac, with a charming little white lace collar and cuffs.

Downstairs, the kitchen was abuzz with gossip as the finishing touches were placed to the main course. Amelia Spencer, a hardy if withdrawn child of thirteen years scurried about the room, sweeping the coal dust from the floor amid barks and calls for her to do this, do that.

"Mightn't we quicken the pace a little, Melia?" Mrs Blackstock advised, tapping her shoulder.

"Yes'm." Was Amelia's meek reply. Mrs Blackstock rounded the large preparation table in the centre of the room, checking each dish in turn.

"Another triumph, I daresay, Victoria." She commented to the young woman collecting dishes from the oven.

She was surprisingly young by usual Cook standards, but Blackstock had been so impressed by her enthusiasm and dedication at the interview that she had hired her on the spot. There was no question of her ability. Miss Victoria Sugden as was, despite the trial of distance from her husband, Adam Barton, had remained faithful and had channelled her melancholy into her work.

Prior to her employment she had been apprentice to an endearing chef of the local public house, which, by request, offered hearty homecooked fare throughout the day, but the landlords of the house could not quite bring themselves to do something so vulgar as to advertise this advantage.

"Melia, another plate here." Blackstock instructed, pointing at the table.

Melia dropped the broom at once with a clatter, charging toward the cupboard, barely aware of Foster as he entered. The group of servants gathered in the corner, enjoying a brief moment of respite suddenly stood to attention like soldiers. Foster commanded authority, his uniform of black tailcoat and pin striped trousers always pristine, his collar perfectly starched and his hair smoothed over with Brylcreem.

"Good evening." He greeted them all, "are we on time, Mrs Blackstock?"

"As clockwork, Mr Foster."

He gave a grunt, tucking his pocket watch back into his waistcoat pocket and moved further into the kitchen, noticing the abandoned broom. His eyes fell on Melia, who was frozen by the door.

"Yours, Miss Spencer?" He asked softly.

Melia nodded.

Foster reached down and brought up the broom to full height.

"I asked Melia to fetch another plate." Blackstock explained, "go on, now." She urged the girl, who scuttled away.

"Beggin' yer pardons," Victoria set the main dish upon the table.

Foster moved swiftly aside to allow her to arrange the dishes and propped the broom against the chair.

"The family is assembled in the dining room." He announced.

"Who are we to attend upon tonight?"

"His Lordship, Her Ladyship, Master Joseph, His Lordship the Younger and Miss Jean." Foster counted them off.

"The child is dining with them?" Blackstock was startled.

"Indeed." Foster answered, a hint of suspicion playing through his tone; "you have some objection, Mrs Blackstock?"

"Not at all." Blackstock corrected herself.

"Good. I shall inform the family that dinner is ready. Kindall, follow me please." Foster instructed, addressing a bald headed, doleful looking man with hound like eyes and a meek expression.

"Right away, sir." He jumped to attention, plodding to the preparation table where the dishes were laid.

"You watch yourself now, Jimmy." Blackstock warned, "we don't want any more accidents."

"No, no, Missus." Jimmy replied; adjusting the plates in his hands.

"Well, good luck; anyhow." Blackstock told him uncertainly, watching Jimmy stumble from the room, barely balancing the dishes in his hands.

"Poor Jimmy," Victoria remarked, pityingly, dusting off her hands, "he does mean well, you know."

"Nobody could doubt his enthusiasm." Blackstock admitted, "its his ability that one has to call into question."

"So Foster says." Victoria shook her head, "must be 'ard for him though. Used to live here with his own."

"How the mighty fall." Biff commented over her shoulder, snatching an apple from the bowl.

"Don't you have anything else to be doing, Mr Fowler?" Blackstock reprimanded him, "you'd better not let Mr Foster hear you talkin' like that."

"Don't intend to; do I?" Biff responded cockily, sitting down next to Ross Barton, another footman and Master Joseph's trusted valet.

"Here, what are you still doing down here?" Blackstock demanded of Ross, shocked to see him still seated at the servants table.

"Taking my tea break." Ross informed her with a shrug.

"Not on my watch, Mr Barton. The family are about to eat and you're meant to be up there, helping Jimmy."

"And he needs all the help he can get." Biff nudged Ross with a cruel chuckle.

"Well, come on!" Blackstock urged.

Ross made a great show of standing slowly, adjusting his dress coat, "want to look my best" before departing upstairs to the family.

"And you Mr Fowler." Blackstock turned her flinty eyes on him, "I suggest you set to preparing His Lordship's trousseau. Unless you have some mending to do?"

She was aware that Fowler despised his master, however much she had tried to encourage him to respect him.

Biff kicked the side of the chair and collected the work basket from the cupboard with a vicious look.

"Where is Melia?" Blackstock queried to the group.

"Haven't seen her." Replied the tight voice of Livvie Flaherty.

"Oh goodness, you don't suppose..." She looked around worriedly, noticing the broom was still untouched where Foster had left it. Ross returned to collect more dishes and carried them upstairs.

As he passed the dining room he noticed a figure crouched in the corner, going through the drawers.

"Ey!" He hissed.

Melia stood up and spun around; terrified.

"Oh, its you!"

"Yea, its me. What yer doin' in 'ere?"

"Mrs Blackstock said to get us 'nother plate." The girl explained.

"Aye, but not from 'ere!" Ross scoffed, beckoning her out, "come on, before Foster sees yer."

Muffled voices were heard next door, becoming increasingly louder as they approached.

"Melia!" Ross pulled her out of sight as the family entered the dining room.

"Now what?" Melia whimpered.

"Ssh." Ross covered her up with a curtain, "stay, don't move."

Melia nodded and Ross retrieved his own penny from the carpet.

"Well, we are privileged, it seems." Lady Tate declared as they sat down at the table, "Mr Barton, are you a conjuror on the quiet?"

Foster fixed his eyes on the footman.

"A conjuror? Really?" Jean piped up, her face flushed with excitement.

"Be quiet, please." Lady Tate shushed her.

"Yes Mama."

"What is this nonsense?" Lord Francis assumed his seat. "Conjurors?"

"A fancy." Lady Tate answered, whipping her napkin in agitation.

Frank caught Jean's disappointed face and attended her at once.

"Little Champion? What on earth is the matter?"

"Nothing, Papa."

Frank's eyes flew to his wife.

"Perhaps it has something to do with your behaviour earlier today. We shall have to have a little word with Mr Hammond. Mechanics are hardly appropriate for a young lady. Unless, of course, you intend to follow your sister's example." She emphasised 'sister' with scorn evident to everyone but Jean.

"Never mind that. I have spoken to Hammond." Frank assured her crisply, "and I think you know, Little Champion, that I have your best interests at heart. Silly old Papa got too cross. He did not mean to scare you."

"I wasn't scared; Papa." Jean confided, putting her napkin daintily on her lap.

"Good. Because Papa loves you."

Kim sipped her wine with disgust.

"Are we late?" Joseph entered in evening dress with James at his side.

"Not at all." Francis bade them sit down at the table and the family assembled.

Christopher was already seated at the end of the table, his father at the head, with his eldest son on his left side and Kim on the other. She sat next to Joseph, James and Zoya opposite and Jean on Joseph's left side.

The bell rang and the family were assembled, the servants attending promptly.

"What is this, Papa?" Jean asked as her plate was placed in front of her.

"Asparagus, Little Champion. A rare delicacy in these troubled times."

"Then why are we eating it?" Joseph queried.

"Because Father likes to show off, Joseph." Replied Christopher coldly.

"Its funny. Its like long broccoli." Jeanie declared, picking it up with her fingers.

"Put it back on the plate and pick it up properly," Kim scolded, "we do not pick things up with our fingers?" She grabbed them, "and they are quite filthy! What have you been doing?"

"I..." Jeanie looked to Francis for support, but he was engaged in a conversation with Christopher.

Zoya avoided looking at Jeanie, her heart struggling to detach herself.

"Leave the table at once and clean them! You may come back when they are washed." She tapped Jeanie's hands sharply, making them sting in red patches, "disobedient child."

"What is going on?" Francis heard the slap.

"Jeanie has filthy hands. No doubt she has been playing with machinery."

"I am sure she hasn't, Father." Zoya attempted to pacify him as his expression clouded, "she wouldn't disobey you." Her long plait flicked sidewards as she turned her head.

"We'll soon find out. Foster, advise Hammond that he is to report to me at the earliest instance after dinner."

Jeanie returned moments later, as Mama caught her by the shoulder as she passed her chair and took her aside to inspect her fingers.

"Cleaner, I suppose?" She sniffed, "so, what have you been doing?"

"Um..." Jeanie looked to Francis, who was still talking with Christopher.

"No, look at me." Kim took her by the chin, "I asked you a question and I want you to answer it."

"I was..." she caught Christopher's wheelchair in her gaze and looked up at her 'Mama.' "I was playing with Crispy's chair."

"Hence the disgusting state of your hands. That was very naughty of you, Jeanie." She shook her head, "so, go to your brother and apologise."

Jeanie's expression was mournful as she approached the gap between her Papa and Christopher and their conversation trailed off.

"Well, what do we have here, Little Champion?" Francis kissed Jeanie's little hands.

"Mama said I was to apologise."

"For what?"

Francis eyed Kim distrustfully.

Christopher kept his eyes forward.

"To me. She stole my chair. She was playing about in it."

"Oh, come now, Christopher, Jeanie was just curious, weren't you, Little Champion?" He asked kindly.

Jeanie nodded.

"But I am truly sorry, Crispy. I am."

"You know what they say about curiosity and the cat?" Christopher replied, his eyes darting at her, seeing all innocence there in her face and relented.

"I accept your apology, but don't ever let me catch you playing with it again. It is not a toy."

"Sorry, Crispy."

"Now, Father, about this meeting, the dinner with Macey and his cronies..."

"Yes, I've booked it in. Friday, at 7:30pm."

"Thanks. I'll take the car."

"You won't be able to do that, Crispy?" Jean spoke up, her brow creasing thoughtfully.

"Oh, why not?" Christopher retorted, annoyed at her interference.

"You're seeing Miss Dingle."

Joseph, who had happened to take a gulp of wine, choked, almost spluttering the contents across the table.

"What is this, Christopher?" Francis demanded.

"I haven't the faintest idea." Bluffed Christopher, but Zoya saw the truth in his eyes.

"You're seeing Miss Baker on Tuesday, Miss Dingle on Friday and Miss Glover..."

Christopher's mouth twitched.

"When are you going to learn to keep your mouth shut?" He hissed.

"Is this true, Christopher?" Francis asked sternly.

"If it is, we shall certainly have to plan for these occasions," Kim interjected, "three dinner parties in one week, Christopher. How extravagant." Her eyes sparkled with mischief.

"Jeanie, Little Champion, why don't you go with Miss Hart, see if she can find you some toast and jam."

"Again?" Sneered Joseph, "if that is the case, may I be dismissed from the table too, Grandfather? The offerings are better in the kitchen, it seems." He smirked, adjusting his collar.

"Yes and you may also leave, Zoya."

"I am staying." Zoya declared.

"Come along, Miss."

Kinsett came forward at once and ushered Jeanie out of the room, shutting the door behind them as she led Jeanie to the servants hall.


	5. Oranges and Lemons

Nothing more was said about the events of the previous night's dinner and for the duration of the following day, all seemed well.

It was mid-afternoon and Jeanie, left to her own device after Kinsett had assigned her to study, had wandered downstairs to the drawing room and stationed herself first at the piano, then at the desk and then, in a sudden spark of inspiration, had seated herself by the gramophone, looking through the small collection of records.

The addition of a gramophone to the drawing room had been most welcome, even if Christopher complained that it was irritating and distracting in equal measure.

Selecting one, she placed it on the gramophone desk.  
 ** _"Poor Little Rich Girl, Poor little rich girl  
You're a bewitched girl  
Better take care  
Laughing at danger  
Virtue a stranger  
Better beware  
The life you lead sets all your nerves a-jangle  
You love affairs are in a hopeless tangle  
Though you're a child, dear  
Your life's a wild typhoon."  
_**  
Jeanie listened to the song, tapping her feet along the carpet, her head slumped against her hand, twisting one of the paperweights next to the gramophone.

"Very apt, I'd say?" A voice startled her and she jumped to her feet, spinning to face them.

"Joseph!"

"That would be Lord Joseph to you, surely?" Joseph corrected her promptly.

"Don't think so." Jeanie twisted her fingers awkwardly.

"Listening to the grammy again, are we?" He nudged her out of the way to examine the records on offer. "Ah, here's one for you. Teddy Bears Picnic? Dear old Papa is really spoiling you, isn't he?"

"No he isn't!" Jeanie protested.

"What's wrong? You seem a little sour today? Hmm, lemon face?"

He went to pinch her cheek and she ducked from his hand, stumbling backwards.

"Come along, Jeanie. What is it? You can tell me anything, you know?" He put on his most innocent look, all wide blue eyes and soft smile, leaning down to her level.

"I saw something."

"Well, that's nothing unusual, is it? I see things all the time." Joseph grinned, "but if it is something so very shocking, do tell!"

"I saw Mama. Mama in the cupboard." Jeanie broached the subject carefully, looking nervous.

"Mama in the cupboard?" Joseph mocked, "whoever heard of such a thing?"

"It wasn't just Mama, it was the butler."

"Foster?" Joseph almost choked on his smirk, "Foster? Our Foster?"

Jeanie nodded.

"I say!"

"You mustn't say!" Jeanie protested.

"Then tell me, what were they doing?"

"Kissing." Jeanie confessed, demonstrating the position, "like they were dancing."

"How scandalous!" Joseph cried, keeping his manner blase and mocking but inside he was revelling. What a brilliant advantage to play against Kim?

"I thought so. I mentioned it to Kinsett. But doesn't Mama love Papa?"

Joseph stifled a chuckle.

"I suppose so. Yes." He nodded, "but, you're not to worry, little glum chum. Mama and Papa love you dearly." He thumped her on the back supportively.

"I know Papa does. Mama doesn't like me." She sighed.

"Who could not like you, little cousin mine?" Joseph knelt down on the carpet, pouting at her.

"Not your cousin." Jeanie tilted her head at him, confused.

"No...but I can't call you Auntie Jeanie, now can I? I'm older than you."

"Suppose not."

"There's no suppose so about it." Joseph replied firmly, patting her arm, "I should really insist on calling you Little Aunt, but I won't, because that would be cruel." He beamed at her, "and if you say that Foster and dear Grandmama were kissing in the cupboard, then I believe you."

"You do?"

"Of course. Ladies don't tell falsehoods, do they?" He confided.

She shook her head as the record scratched, declaring its end.

"Another turn?" Joseph suggested, holding out his hand.

Jeanie hauled herself from the chair as Joseph set another record on the turntable again.

"Baby Face?" Jeanie folded her arms crossly.

"What better song is there?" Joseph replied, bobbing to the melody. "Come on, glum chum?"

Jean rolled her eyes and took his hand, laughing as he twirled her around.

" _I fell in love with your pretty Baby Face_!" He sang in a pleasant fashion.

"Well, that is a new one on me, I confess." Kim swept into the room, eyeing them with suspicion, a smirk on her face. The two younger members of the family ceased dancing at once, Joseph standing in front of his 'aunt' protectively.

"I was under the mistaken impression that from 2 o clock to four o clock was your engagement for study, Jean?" Kim addressed her directly.

Jean gulped.

"Yes Mama."

"Then perhaps you should get back to it."

"She's not going anywhere." Joseph's eyes blazed back at Kim.

"This doesn't concern you, Joseph."

"I doubt Grandfather would say the same." Joseph returned boldly, "I fail to see why Jeanie should not be allowed some time to indulge in music if she wishes?"

"Well, that is my prerogative, as her mother."

"Mother?" Joseph repeated, scoffing.

"Jean, back to Kinsett." Kim instructed.

"No." Jean answered, "you kissed the butler, you kissed Mr Foster."

"What nonsense is this?" Kim demanded, "a servant? What a fanciful imagination you have."

"I'm not sure she does!" Joseph crowed.

"Jean? I believe Kinsett is waiting? Unless you'd like an extended study and no supper?"

The girl hesitated, looking up at Joseph.

"Go along, I can manage." He insisted.

Jean raised herself on tiptoes to kiss his cheek, before scuttling off.

"Just us, then." Joseph commented.

"Don't be so vulgar." Kim spat, placing her gloves on the back of the sofa.

"It is true, isn't it? You and Foster?" Joseph's eyes glinted mischievously. "I wonder what dear Grandfather will say to that?"

"Don't play games, Joseph. You don't have the wit and I don't have the patience." Kim warned.

"I'll take that as a yes?"

"Take it as you please." Kim placed herself on the sofa, elegantly.

"Then, I have to ask, what is it worth? For me to remain quiet? Hmm?" Joseph tilted his head.

"I sincerely hope that you're not trying to blackmail me?" Kim scowled.

"Take it as you please." Joseph smirked at her.

"Oh, how original you are." Kim draped her arm on the back of the sofa.

"I know. Its one of my most redeeming qualities." Joseph took a seat opposite her. "so, the butler and the Lady of the House?"

"Whatever you think, Joseph, you are taking the word of a silly little girl."

"Your 'daughter'." Joseph reminded her, "or not. We all know the truth, Grandmother."

"No, you are presuming to know. Very different," Kim drawled, eyes flashing with challenge, "you have no proof, Joseph. So I'm sorry, but the bank is closed for today."

"I'll be certain to advise Foster." Joseph responded wittily, leaving the room with a satisfied expression.


	6. The Butler and The Lady

_The weeks continue, but things are stirring..._

For a while it seemed that things were settled. The preparations for the party continued downstairs, whilst upstairs, Christopher, Joseph and James went about their business and Foster and Kim continued their dangerous liaisons.

"Good morning, Lord Tate," said Miss Windsor flirtatiously as she entered the drawing room where Christopher and Zoya were seated.

"Good morning, Kelly," said Christopher unctuously. Miss Windsor, who had recently been employed as a maid, was another pet member of staff chosen by Lord Christopher, although unlike Miss Glover, she welcomed the Lord's attentions. "Haven't I told you to call me Christopher?"

"Oh I wouldn't feel right, sir, you're practically royalty!" Miss Windsor tittered. Christopher basked in the adulation.

"Did you want something, Miss Windsor?" Zoya asked coolly, barely glancing at her.

Miss Windsor cast a scornful eye over Zoya's attire. The Lady was back in her androgynous clothing. This time, a set of checked trousers, a navy waistcoat that looked as though it might just have been purloined from a gentleman's tailor and had been fitted to Lady Zoya's exact proportions. Kelly swept forward in her grey calf length dress and white apron, neat frilled white cap atop her caramel coloured hair. "Just checking if his Lordship required anything?"

"If he does I'm sure he will ring for you."

Miss Windsor nodded, turned and curtsied to Christopher and left the room, smoothing down her skirt at the back.

"I do wish you wouldn't embarrass yourself over the staff so," Zoya remarked as Miss Windsor closed the door. "She's young enough to be your..."

"What? Younger sister?" Christopher returned. "She's only our dear brother's age..."

"Which is younger than your son." Zoya turned a page of the book she was reading.

"Yet still older than your daughter. Sorry, I meant our sweet little sister. Papa's darling."

"Just because you were allowed to keep your illegitimate offspring and I wasn't..."

"Always the victim," Christopher mocked harshly. "Perhaps if you'd been born a man all your problems would be solved."

"I have no interest in being a man." Zoya glared at her brother. "Your sex is of no interest to me."

"Perhaps you should keep that to yourself. We want to avoid any further scandal, where we can." Christopher turned his attention back to the newspaper.

"What are you doing?" Fowler asked as he approached the drawing room, having heard the bell for service. Miss Windsor was standing with her ear to the door, raised voices coming from within.

"Shh," Miss Windsor hushed him. "Lord Christopher's having a row with his sister."

"So? They're always rowing, that family." Fowler shrugged.

"Did you know Miss Jeanie was Lady Zoya's?"

"Of course, the whole household knows."

"Lord Christopher don't seem too happy about it."

"Why do you fawn over him?" Fowler asked disgustedly. "He's vile."

"He's not that bad. You can tell he used to be handsome, before he was crippled."

"I'll thank you not to talk about my father like that," said a voice behind them. The servants swung to see Lord Joseph Tate glaring at them. "And I don't believe you're paid to stand around and gossip."

"Sorry, Lord Joseph," said Miss Windsor, batting her eyelashes. "I was just saying what a handsome man your father still is... like father, like son," she added, running her eyes down Joseph's form. The young Lord was attired in another country style suit, with a fine burgundy coloured tie and sharp white cuffs. Fowler rolled his eyes.

"Don't you have something to be getting on with?" Joseph asked Fowler.

"Yes, my Lord." Fowler avoided making eye contact with Joseph as he retreated.

"And as for you…" Joseph approached Miss Windsor, who braced herself to be sacked. "Do you often listen at doorways?"

"No sir, of course not!"

"Pity." Joseph frowned. "I was going to ask you to follow my step-grandmother, report back on her movements. But if you're not interested..."

"Why do you want me to follow Lady Tate?" asked Miss Windsor, intrigued.

Joseph looked around to make sure nobody else was listening. "Let's just say Lady Tate has been indiscreet lately. I need evidence to present to my grandfather. Will you keep an eye out for me? There's an extra few shillings in it for you."

"Of course, but how do I know what I'm looking for?"

"You'll know when you see it." Joseph's eyes roved over Miss Windsor's skirt. "If you'll excuse me, I must talk to my father."

The younger Lord let himself into the drawing room, leaving Miss Windsor rather confused outside the door.

"Christopher, that is outrageous!" Zoya snapped at her brother, standing, with her cheeks flushed and eyes aflame.

"Zoya…"

"Oh, good morning Joseph." She greeted her nephew, "see if you can talk some sense into your father, will you? He seems to be struggling this morning."

"What is going on?"

"Your aunt believes that I indulge the servants too much."

"Isn't that how I came to be?"

"You're as bad as each other. Enjoy your breakfast, Joseph." Zoya shook her head, leaving the room.

"Oh, Zoya, darling," Kim swept past on her way to the front door, "oh, going riding?"

"No, just out to the village. One of the farmers has a problem with a poorly sheep, I thought I should attend as an observer to the treatment."

"Zoya," Kim took her hand, smiling sweetly, "you know how much I admire your dedication, your determination to support these causes of equality and suffrage."

"thank you."

"Oh no, it is my pleasure. However, there were a few…remarks made at our last…gathering for tea, with Miss Macey in attendance."

"Oh?"

"Yes, she implied that it was not in her interest to visit the home of someone who allows their household to be run as a bohemian slum."

"Did she?" Zoya was wise to Kim's snideness and removed her hand. "Well, it is none of Miss Macey's concern as to what I choose to do with my life. No more is it yours. I am a grown woman, Kim. I will not be coerced into your narrow minded view of how I should conduct myself. Now, if you will excuse me," she sought her hat in the row within the cupboard, picking out a maroon cloche with upturned trim and pulled it down with vigour, setting her chin and walking with grace to the door.

Kim turned away, helpless and knocked on the door of the study.

"Frank?"

"Yes, what is it?" Her husband glanced up briefly to acknowledge her appearance before resuming his work.

"We really must talk about Zoya."

"What is there to say, hmm? As you have so often said, she is not a child."

"No, but she has a child. Or have you forgotten?"

"Of course not." Francis put down his pen, sighing.

Kim assumed the seat opposite Francis at the desk, her eyes skimming across the headed letters.

"Surely you have noticed her attitude? The way she stomps about the house with an air of petulance?"

"Yes, my love. I am aware that Zoya is discomforted at present. I have tried to talk to her and will continue to do so, but even I cannot constrain her."

"I am not asking that…of course, she is your daughter."

"She is," Francis nodded, "but I thank you for your concern. I had hoped that in the years that have passed that you might find some…settlement between you. It appears I was wrong."

"You cannot win every battle, Frank." Kim wandered around the desk to him, cupping his face, "the atmosphere is so distracting here. Look at Christopher, two marriages and a child growing up to be a rebel with no occupation, or purpose. It cannot be good for any of us, especially for Jeanie." She sighed, "I love her dearly, but it seems so cruel to deceive her. If she were away at school…"

Francis' face hardened.

"I thought we had discussed this."

"We did, however I considered that you might have given it further thought?"

"And come to an alternative conclusion which would relinquish you of all responsibility to the child." Francis observed, "no, Kim. Jeanie will remain here."

"Francis…"

"I won't hear anything more, Kim. My decision is final. Jeanie stays. I will, however talk to Zoya."

Kim flounced to the door.

"I am glad I now know of your priorities." She opened the door.

"Kim."

"No, please, I shall see myself out, find something to occupy myself." Kim assured him. Francis threw down his pen, spurting ink across the documents.

"Damn!"

Kim kept her composure, remaining calm as she moved swiftly along the hall to the entrance to the servants quarters, seeking one servant in particular for comfort. Yet she could not bear to beleaguer herself with their gossip and retreated, noticing the very person she had sought out standing by the doors to the dining room.

"Foster, a word please?"

Foster allowed Lady Tate to pull him aside into the dining room, which was deserted.

"My Lady," he said, a smile playing across his lips.

"We have a problem," was all Lady Tate said.

"What is it?" Foster frowned at her expression.

"Joseph knows about us."

"What? How? That's impossible."

"Little Jeanie saw us embracing, apparently she confided in her odious cousin. No doubt he encouraged her."

"Has Joseph told Lord Francis?"

"Not yet, which means he and his father are probably plotting something."

"If it's just Jean's word..." said Foster slowly. "Surely that can be denied. She's an imaginative child."

"Francis may believe that, but Joseph won't. Nor will Christopher. They want me gone, as a threat to their inheritance..."

"Come now." Foster put his arms around her. "We must just be more careful in future, that's all."

"We mustn't be seen together at all until this problem is solved." Lady Tate pushed him away, standing with her arms folded. "I cannot afford to lose what I am owed."

"Perhaps I could talk to Joseph," Foster suggested. "He still has a certain fondness for me, from school..."

"You talk as if he had a heart," Lady Tate cried. "Talking to him would only give confirmation."

"Then what do you suggest?"

The lady thought for a moment. "If a little accident was to befall my grandson..."

Foster took a step back. "You wish me to murder Lord Joseph?"

"As you say, he's fond of you. You could go hunting with him, perhaps an unfortunate incident with a shotgun..."

"My Lady has gone mad."

"Not at all, my Graham," she purred. "It's simple logic. Lord Francis is not a well man, as you know. When he's gone I shall inherit all this - what's left when his miserable brats have received their share - and then we can live together openly, just you and me. And James," she added as an afterthought.

"And you would kill your own child's nephew to achieve that?"

"Joseph despises James. He is his father through and through. If he tells Francis about us, if he presents proof..."

"What proof could he present? The world of a child who still thinks Lord Francis is her father?"

"He won't stop until he gets further evidence! If Francis found out we would both be ruined. I would be on the street with no inheritance, you would be a nobody again..."

"We would still have each other." Foster ignored the stinging sensation at her choice of words.

"Sentiment doesn't supply food and clothing, Foster!" Lady Tate snapped. "I've been poor once and I won't go back there. If you are not prepared to take care of Joseph, then we would have to stay away from each other, until Lord Francis is gone..."

"I would sooner kill Lord Francis than Joseph."

The lady's eyes widened. "What an idea." She laughed softly. "Nevertheless, Francis must die of natural causes. Otherwise suspicion will fall on those closest to him. Nobody will question a simple hunting accident, with one as foolish as Joseph..."

"And if Joseph has already spoken to his father about this? Are we going to kill the Lord Christopher too?"

"Nobody would take the word of a grief-stricken father seriously. Christopher is unhinged at the best of times. Even Francis despises his own son."

"There must another solution..."

"There isn't." Lady Tate looked towards the closed door as if hearing a noise from there. Crossing the room, she opened the door and found Miss Windsor out in the hall, dusting the staircase bannister.

"What are you doing?" Lady Tate asked suspiciously."

"Just dusting, my lady." Miss Windsor's eyes widened innocently.

Lady Tate swept a finger along the bannister, leaving a trail in its wake. "Doing a terrible job, by the looks of it," she remarked. Foster appeared behind her, looking impassive.

Lady Tate turned to Foster. "We'll continue this conversation later, Foster."

"Yes, my lady." Foster returned to his duties. Miss Windsor watched him depart as she continued dusting.

"Do be careful on those stairs," Lady Tate warned Miss Windsor as she swept down the hallway.


	7. Propriety and Impropriety

_In which breakfast leads to ructions..._

Another week began, much as its previous counterparts did at Home Farm. The fires were lit to ease the early morning chill that swept through the house as the curtains were opened and the servants scuttled about urgently, determined to keep to the tight schedule organised by Mrs Blackstock and Foster.

Yet, Mrs Blackstock, whom had spent her previous employment as the manager of a boarding house, knew the importance of a regime and rota and never appeared flustered nor agitated.

"Belle, have you lit the fire yet in Her Ladyship's room?" She asked, consulting the rota as Belle sat at the servants table, tucking into bread and dripping.

"Yes, Mrs Blackstock." The girl returned in earnest. Of the three housemaids to attend the family, she was quite the fairest. Golden hair, however scandalously similar to Her Ladyship's, was swept up into a bun over which she wore a smart white cap with a lace trim. It was well known that Her Ladyship had a particular dislike for the Dingle girl, in comparison to Ceri Spencer and Liza Fowler, who at best were only passable as servants.

Ceri herself hailed from the uttermost Northern province of Newcastle, whereas Liza was a local girl and a favourite of The Earl's son, Christopher, whom she avoided at every opportunity.

He would never have dared to approach Ceri or Belle, by the restrictions of their class, but there was something alluring about Liza that the young heir valued and was often to be found ringing the bell for Liza exclusively.

"And where've you been, Ceri?" Demanded Mrs Blackstock as Ceri trudged in to the kitchen, spilling mud in her wake.

"Horse threw a shoe, din't it?" She grimaced, dark hair tumbling out of its messily placed cap as she leaned on a chair to slip off her outdoor boots. "Me an' our Dan 'ad to make ours way 'ere through t'fields. No easy feat, I tell yers."

"So I understand," Blackstock shook her head in astonishment. "Well, get yourself to the boot room, clean off that mud before Mr Foster sees you." She urged, gesturing to the boot room where Jacob Gallagher, the boot boy, was working.

Or shirking, as Foster termed it.

"Everything on time, Mrs Blackstock?" Foster strode into the kitchen and the entire staff stood to attention. They were conscious of his military profile and knew to respect his rank, at least in that regard.

"You may sit." He directed and they assumed their seats. "What is this, Mrs Blackstock?" His eyes honed in sharply on the mud that Ceri had trailed across the slate floor.

"Oh, that were from t'laundry baskets." Mrs Blackstock bluffed, "nothing of note."

Foster grunted by way of response.

"Then perhaps you might organise Amelia to remove this. I believe Her Ladyship will be making her inspection this morning. I should like her to see an immaculate household."

"Well, quite!" Agreed Mrs Blackstock with vigour.

"Aye, man, these boots, I tell yer..." Ceri emerged from the boot room and Foster raised his eyebrows, running his eyes over her ragged and dirty ensemble.

"Miss Spencer?"

"Aye, its Missus if yer must know." Ceri grumbled.

"Quite." Foster corrected, "can you kindly explain how you came to be in such a state of disarray?"

"Well, me an' our Dan, me 'usband, we're on our way 'ere in t'cart and t'horse throws a shoe, like. Chucks us off, it does. So 'e says, 'you go on ahead, can't be long afore someone finds us, eh?' So after a quibble, I says to 'im, 'if yers wait 'ere I can get 'elp from t'house."

Foster opened his mouth to interrupt but Ceri had become quite determined to finish her story, as amusing as it was for the other servants to observe.

"...so I ends up trottin' me way through t'fields, like, only I get lost. Place is grand, but enormous, like. So I 'as to ask Hammond and 'e says that yers are all in 'ere, so I comes in and I know I'm a bit...untidy, like, but I got 'ere, didnt I?"

Foster was quite simply flabbergasted by her admission and temporarily dazed.

"Well, that's understandable enough, Ceri," Blackstock offered, "however there is no sending you up to the family in this state."

"No, Mrs Blackstock is right. Melia will have to assume your place for the day, Mrs Spencer." Foster concurred.

"Aye, man, but she's fourteen years old!"

"Any more protestations like that will only add to your offence," Foster warned her, "you will be deducted two shillings for your tardiness and a further threepence for your insolence." He paused, "Mrs Blackstock, see that Mrs Spencer is correctly attired before inspection." A bell rang in the background, signalling the first tray to be brought to Lady Zoya. She was always the first to rise in the morning. It was something of an accolade for her.

Despite her liberal protestations on subjects of hunting and suchlike, she remained faithful to her class by observing the privileges.

Upstairs, in her room, she stretched elegantly and reached for the bell, tugging it gently.

"Three. Two. One." Belle muttered in the kitchen. The bells began to ring in sequence, prompting breakfasts to be abandoned in favour of service.

"Lady Zoya," Victoria confirmed to Effie, the unofficial Lady's Maid to Lady Zoya.

Effie seized the tray at once and bounded upstairs in her heavy footed fashion, coming to pause at Lady Zoya's door.

"Milady, your breakfast." She advised.

Zoya was already dressed, yet allowed her to bring in the tray.

"Thank you, Effie." She smiled warmly, taking a slice of toast from the plate and wandering over to the window. "Do you ever wonder what you would be doing if you weren't a servant?"

"I don't really, Milady. I suppose I would be a wife and mother. Find some nice young chap or other..." she blushed.

"Of course, as that is our natural function, is it not?" Zoya sighed, her tone filled with scorn.

"I do think it would be nice to have a little boy or girl, Milady." Effie confessed.

"Oh, yes." Zoya took a bite of toast.

"Beggin' yer pardon, Milady, for my impertinence, but I suppose Miss Jean is an ample example of how it would be."

"Indeed she is." Zoya looked out of the window, "and you are not impertinent, Effie. Just curious."

"Me mother always said it'd be t'ruin o'me." Effie chastised herself.

"Not at all." A melancholy look came over Zoya's face, as she began to think of her daughter, shut away in the nursery as she herself had been as a child. "I suppose I do myself little favour with my chosen ensemble." She gestured to her trousers and waistcoat over a silk blouse.

"I think it very fine, Milady."

"Yet hardly appropriate for a Lady. My father dislikes it immensely."

"I should not care for his opinion, Milady. You are modern, as I am." She stammered, "oh...not that I imply that we are equal, Milady! Far from it!"

Zoya chuckled.

"Oh, Effie, dear Effie, you worry yourself too much!" She assured her. "And we are indeed equals."

"Thank you." Effie's cheeks flushed, "I had better get back to t'kitchens."

"Yes and I shall attune myself to the task of choosing something more acceptable to wear." Zoya advised dully, opening the wardrobe behind her.

"Can I assist in any way, Milady?" Effie asked quickly, hesitating by the door.

"No, that will not be necessary, thank you, Effie. I can manage."

"As you wish, Milady." Effie bowed her head as she closed the door, leaving Zoya to contemplate the array of garments in her wardrobe. She openly despised the dresses that had become the fashion, but it was her only means of pacifying her father enough to ensure that he would listen to her.

With this in mind, she selected a rose pink silk blouse with charming soft sleeves and a slightly flared cotton navy skirt with a navy trim around the 'dropped' waist.

She gathered her long hair into a roll at the side of her head, securing it with a jewelled clip with a peacock feather and added rouge to her cheeks and a line of lipstick to enhance her definitive features.

Satisfied with her reflection, she left the room and trotted elegantly downstairs to the drawing room where the other members of the family were already assembled, proud and immaculate, with the exemption of Jean, who was no doubt still in the nursery, only being permitted to attend the table once Papa and Mama had breakfasted.

"What a charming outfit," Lady Tate remarked, eyes sparkling as Zoya entered the room, "I must commend Harrison on her choice. Such a beautifully feminine ensemble."

Zoya managed to keep the smile on her face, fully aware of the true meaning behind Lady Tate's compliment.

"Thank you." She replied graciously.

"I daresay you do scrub up well." Her brother commented, wheeling himself back to allow her to assume a seat alongside Lady Tate.

Zoya perched herself elegantly on the sofa, hands folded neatly, ankles tucked inwards, her back straight, determined to show her father that she was quite capable of being worthy of her title of Lady.

"And James is here!" Declared Lord Francis, thumping his youngest son enthusiastically on the back as he joined them.

"A moment whilst I indulge in this unique opportunity." Christopher muttered snidely, "Father's favourite and all."

"Don't be bitter, Christopher." Warned Lady Tate, with a smirk, "it quite cripples your face."

Christopher scowled at her.

"Good to see you, my boy." Francis ushered his son into the throng, "how was London?"

"As good as it can be, considering the circumstances. There are flutterings in the City, Father. The outlook is quite grim." James admitted sedately.

"Ha!" Christopher let out a dark laugh, "well done for another optimistic start to the day."

"Must you be so cruel to your brother, Christopher?"

"Anyone would think he was three, not twenty three." Christopher murmured.

"And when you behave like that I'm tempted to ring for Nanny and send you to bed without supper." His father advised.

"Jam sandwiches are a delicacy for disobedient children, I hear." Christopher retorted, turning his chair slightly.

"Humph!" Was his father's best response, "if you're referring to your young sister..."

"Good morning, Mother." James leant down to kiss his mother's powdery cheek, sweeping past Christopher.

"Don't mind me." Christopher grumbled, "and yes, Father, I do refer to her. It seems you have your priorities in order."

"Christopher, please don't." Zoya added starkly.

"Oh I am sorry," despite his admission, there was no hint of remorse, "dearest brother, I do beg your pardon." He bowed his head.

"I wondered if you and Joseph might like to review the figures later in the study."

"Capital idea!" Agreed Lord Francis.

"Hmm, I'll see what's in the diary."

"A visit to see Miss Glover, no doubt." Suggested Lady Tate with a tone unbecoming to morning conversation.

"Well anything's better than listening to the warblings of the prodigal daughter." Christopher replied coldly.

"Your sister has a fine voice and should not be teased thus." Lord Francis reprimanded his son.

"Oh please, Dad, do you honestly believe that anyone should care for the scandal? Its an open secret." He emphasised, "everyone knows that the little darling is the product of the chauffeur."

"Chris." Zoya spoke up, highly discomforted by the direction of the conversation.

"Sorry," he glanced at his sister, whose face was pained.

"Well, that's a lovely start to the day." Lady Tate shook her head, "no more of this nastiness."

Christopher met Zoya's eyes.

"Quite right, darling." Lord Tate patted Lady Tate's shoulder, standing behind the sofa, "it appears that we are famished and that is causing this ill temper." He rang a small bell upon the side table and Foster promptly appeared.

"Sir." He bowed.

"How long for breakfast?"

"I shall see to it immediately, My Lord." Foster advised.

"Thank you. It should not be long."

An awkward silence descended on the room, as the previous subject of conversation had been closed. A few dark looks were exchanged between Lord Tate, Christopher and Lady Tate, whilst Zoya and James remained silent.

Foster was most astonished to find the family in such an uncertain state upon his return. They seemed so detached from one another, as noble families often are, yet he couldn't help but notice the smirks on Christopher and Joseph's faces as though they had been instrumental in the forming of the situation.

"Breakfast is served, my Lord." Foster announced.

"Thank you." Lord Francis replied, "will you be joining us, Christopher?"

"Indeed I will. Wouldn't miss it." Christopher answered pompously.

His son admitted a guffaw and followed the family in single file to the adjoining room, upon which breakfast was set.

Needless to say, food was plentiful here. Bacon, eggs, two racks of golden toast, accompanied by butter and jam, kippers for Lord Francis and a charming tea service.

The family took their seats as Foster awaited further instruction. Lady Tate stole a glance several times toward Foster. He was a distinguished sort of man whom had caught her eye upon his arrival as the adopted valet of Joseph. His dark eyes were mysterious and his voice dangerously exciting. It was no wonder that she had taken a fancy to him.

Zoya sat in melancholy, uncertain of how the conversation might progress. Christopher might have apologised, but he was persistent all the same.

"Will there be anything else, my Lord?"

"The Courier, please, Foster." Lord Francis explained, transferring kippers to his plate.

"Of course."

"And The Sketch, if you please, Foster?" Lady Tate requested, her attention firmly on him.

"Yes, Milady." He offered a hint of a smile.

Upstairs in the nursery, Nicola was occupied in the nursery maid's sitting room adjoining the nursery itself where Jeanie was playing.

Nicola, exhausted from the previous restless night, during which Miss Jean had struggled to sleep, had settled herself in the chair by the window with some darning only to be overcome by drowsiness and had fallen asleep, her mouth hanging open, little snores slipping out.

Not that Jean noticed. She was too busy with her dolls.


End file.
